


To Be Right Where You Are

by thedropoutandthejunkie (elenajames)



Category: Criminal Minds, Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Spencer, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beta Dean, Brother Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, First Time, Godstiel - Freeform, Hallucifer, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Sam, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 07:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8568772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/thedropoutandthejunkie
Summary: A case puts Sam and Dean in the path of the BAU, and Sam is just unlucky enough to be the brother that gets collared.  With the safety of Earth and Cas' life on the line, neither Winchester has time to play nice with the Feds, but fate has a way of screwing with their plans.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks you's to: intotheruins and wingedwincest for cheering me on. babybrotherdean for beta-ing this creature. everyone who listened to me whine and gripe about this fic. Y'all are awesome.  
> A few notes:  
> Psychological horror tag is for Hallucifer torturing Sam with various disturbing images, including disfigurement and insects.  
> This fic is canon divergent somewhere around the end of S6/start of S7 of Supernatural.

The Winchester brothers were supposed to be dead, killed in the helicopter crash reported by Agent Victor Henriksen shortly before he was killed himself.

 

That was over two years ago.

 

Now, Reid is nursing a myriad of bruises and a sore shoulder, and Hotch has a black eye from taking Sam into custody.

 

It had been the fluke of all flukes; they’d been in town on a case and Reid and Hotch had opted to head to the crime scene while the others went to interview witnesses and get set up with the local precinct. Hotch had pointed out the man subtly to Reid, neither of them certain that it was truly Sam Winchester until they caught sight of an edge of the too-familiar tattoo beneath the hem of the other man’s collar.

 

“Who would’ve thought. One of the infamous Winchesters undone by an unbuttoned shirt,” Rossi comments, seemingly offhand even though he’s every bit as tense as the others.

 

The team is split, Morgan, JJ, and Emily still working the string of grotesque murders in the area until the additional team Hotch had requested could arrive; after that, they’d all be focusing on interrogating Sam Winchester and trying to find his brother, Dean.

 

Hotch, Rossi, and Reid watch as the younger Winchester shifts, sighing a little when his movement is hindered by the cuffs and chains keeping him seated at the table. He’s slouched, shoulders stooped as though he can disguise even an inch of his height. Reid was surprised at just how _big_ Winchester seemed up close, and even more so at how quiet and demure the man had been once he was firmly in custody.

 

“Reid. I want you to go in.” Hotch is quiet, intent even when he spares Reid a small glance.

 

The younger agent just nods, smoothing down his ruffled shirt and heading into the interrogation room.

 

* * *

  


Sam’s arms are sore, face a little bruised from the take-down. He shifts, trying to ease some of the ache in his body, but he can’t go far with the shackles around his wrists and ankles. It’s annoying, a bit too much like overkill, but he’d fought the two agents who’d brought him in pretty hard; really, he can only blame himself.

 

With a sigh, Sam slumps; he knows there are agents watching just behind the glass, but Lucifer is humming “Sweet Child O’Mine” for the hundredth time today and all Sam wants is sleep. Dean had wanted to take this case, chasing some semblance of normal with a world rotting from the inside out and a brother with hellfire burning in his brain. Sam couldn’t blame him, really; now, he’s just glad that Dean had gone to interview vics. Hopefully, he hadn’t run into any agents along the way.

 

One of the agents that had arrested him steps into the room, moving carefully, and Sam feels a surge of guilt. Lucifer shuts up, amazingly, just as the agent sits down with a wince.

 

“I’m sorry. You really should get that shoulder looked at.” Sam keeps his voice soft, but surprise still flickers over the agent’s face before his expression settles.

 

“My shoulder is fine, thank you. I’m Agent Reid.” The agent is quiet for a moment, assessing. He’s young-looking, though probably not much younger than Sam himself. Something innocent lingers in his face, but a prickle in Sam’s skin tells him that it’s mostly facade. “Where’s your brother, Sam?”

 

Forward. Interesting. “You have to know I’m not going to just give you Dean.”

 

A quirk of lips. “I know. You’re loyal, aren’t you?” Agent Reid goes on, but Lucifer appears behind him then. It’s hard to focus on what the man has to say when Sam’s watching his skin get flayed off. “Sam? What are you looking at?”

 

Giving himself a shake, Sam drags his eyes away from Lucifer, forces himself to look the agent in the eyes and away from the exposed bone and muscle he ~~thinks~~ knows is just an illusion. “Nothing. Sorry.” Shit.

 

“Is there someone here, Sam?”

 

For a moment, Sam debates the insanity route. It’s not a bad plea, especially if it takes Dean a while to get him out of here; better institutionalized than in maximum security.

 

“Yeah. No.” Sam shrugs, watches the agent’s face shift only slightly. He allows his gaze to wander as Lucifer continues his work, flicking a piece of Agent Reid’s cheek across the table to land just short of Sam’s shackles.

 

“Who is it, Sam?” Calculating, curious . . . knowing.

 

“Lucifer. He’s peeling your skin off. There’s a piece just there, on the table,” Sam gestures slightly, carefully, and watches Agent Reid take in the presumably-empty space on the table. He listens to Lucifer’s commentary and sighs. “He says you have great cheekbones.”

 

“Now, now Sam, I didn’t _say_ that, but you certainly think so don’t you?” Lucifer grins, drawing the sharp edge of the blade up the agent’s cheek. Sam looks away when the angel goes for one of the agent’s eyes; he’s always hated that part the most.  

 

“You said yes and no. So you know he’s not real?”

 

“I - I think he’s not. I can’t be sure.” It’s a raw admission, one that makes Sam’s voice genuinely shake as horror and fear prickle over his skin. He clenches his eyes shut against the sight of Agent Reid’s eyeball landing between his hands as Lucifer laughs.

 

“Sam. Whatever you’re seeing, it isn’t real. Lucifer isn’t in this room. It’s just you and me.”

 

Dragging in a deep breath, Sam bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. _Stone number one_. There’s still a hint of Dean’s cologne clinging to Sam’s clothes, and this agent smells faintly of vanilla and old books. He’s different and new and Sam finds himself staring at abruptly intact hazel eyes.

 

“Yeah. Okay.”

 

Agent Reid gives up after a while, a wrinkle of frustration between his brows as he gets up to leave. Agent Hotcher - the one with the mean right that’s left Sam’s jaw aching - follows, all quiet intensity and soft voice. There’s lingering threat beneath every word, and Hotchner’s frustration  shows in the tense corners of his mouth.

 

Sam likes and dislikes Agent Rossi a little more than Reid and Hotchner. He’s got a sense of humor that leaks through, but quickly turns biting. His posture reminds Sam more than a little of John and that in itself rankles in its own unique way.

 

Agent Jareau is soft, motherly. Sam tries not to think about the ways she looks like Mom even as Lucifer rings her pretty blonde hair in flames. There’s a wedding ring on her finger and the gentle way she speaks tells Sam she definitely has kids. He finds himself hoping that whoever they are, they never have to see the way her skin crisps and blackens, flaking away and landing on the pale blue of her button up shirt.

 

“Sam?” She reaches out, seemingly in spite of herself, drawing back from him just before she makes contact. He’s too fuzzy to tell if he’s accidentally gotten under her skin or if the concern etched on her face is just part of her M.O., but he doesn’t miss the way the next agent comes barging in, sending Jareau on her way.

 

“Alright. That’s enough. Tell us where Dean is, Winchester.” This agent reminds Sam a little of Dean. Selling himself as brawn when his intelligence is obviously equal to that of his peers. It almost makes him smile. “You think this is funny?”

 

Agent Reid is back then, handing the new one files that get flicked across the table at Sam one by one. Case after case, all familiar, and some dating back as far as when Sam was a kid. He recognizes faces, towns, crime scene photos - all the people he’d saved and all the people he didn’t are etched into the back of his brain anyway; here he just gets to see them laid out in glossy photos.

 

“You’d have to be a pretty sick person to find all of this funny,” the agent is nearly shouting, waving one hand to encompass the contents of the table.

 

“It’s not funny.” Sam’s not aware that he’s said it too softly until the agent looks at him, confused. “It isn’t. Funny. What happened to those people. It’s just sad.”

 

“Then what the hell were you smiling about?” The agent is scrambling for footing, trying to keep his mask on tight.

 

“You remind me of my brother.” He really shouldn’t feel amused at the way the agent shuts down, muscles bunching in fury before Agent Reid grabs him by the arm, gripping tight.

 

“Morgan!” Tight, bit off; an order but not; it’s still enough to get the agent - Agent Morgan, it seems - to reign himself in. They leave the case files on the table, and Sam gingerly slides them away from him. After all, it’s not like he’ll ever forget what’s in them.   


 

* * *

 

Sam hates jail cells. He’s a sitting duck, especially in chains. There’s nothing in his cell he can find to use as a weapon, and he’d been searched thoroughly, so his lockpicks and paperclips are somewhere in lockup with the rest of his things. The orange jumpsuit is as ugly as he remembers it, and - if he doesn’t look too close - it doesn’t remind him too much of flames. His neighbor is a sullen-faced man, twitchy in a way that tells Sam he’s tweaking. He halfway hopes he’s not here to see the guy go through withdrawals.

 

They’ll move him soon, he’s sure. Leaving him where Dean can find him so easily isn’t a good idea on their part; Sam just hopes they don’t Patriot Act him and stick him somewhere untraceable. He manages to get a little sleep before his cell is being opened. Three officers get him up and lead him out, the threatening nudge of a gun just at the small of his back. They lead him back to the interrogation room from the day before, and - to Sam’s surprise - the first meal he’s been offered is waiting for him. Part of him wants to refuse; the rest of him knows that he’s going to need to keep his shit together in the event of a jail break.

 

Agent Reid comes in when Sam’s halfway through his burger and fries. Sam peeks just enough to see who it is before clenching his eyes shut again; Lucifer’s filled his meal with squirming bugs, but he can almost block them out if he keeps his eyes closed.

 

“Is it insects?” Agent Reid says softly.

 

It catches Sam off guard, the words and the look of understanding he finds in the agent’s face. “Yeah. Yeah, this time it is.”

 

“And the other things - the monsters - are they like Lucifer and the insects, Sam?”

 

Gingerly, Sam balls up the last bites of burger in a napkin, shoving it back in the bag so he can’t see the wriggle of maggots between the buns. “No.”

 

“You seem certain about that.”

 

Sam just shrugs. He can’t think too hard about it, not when everything is so tenuous; it makes horror crawl up his throat and choke him if he does.

 

Agent Reid opens his mouth again, only to close it with a snap. He looks disturbed for the briefest of moments before excusing himself. Sam watches him go, sighing a little before closing his eyes to block out the ever-present sight of Lucifer and his flames.   


 

* * *

  


“Reid. What is it?” Hotch is tense, concerned as Reid practically flees the interrogation room, but his stomach is roiling too much for him to stop. There’s a bathroom down the hall, big stalls, good locks and he’s breathing hard and fast as he drops down onto the seat.

 

For one unmistakeable, unbearable moment, Sam Winchester had smelled of mate. Reid’s inner alpha is howling, furious as his foremind twists in disgust. How, how could someone like _that_ be compatible with him?

 

“Reid?” Hotch. Reid knows the other man can scent his distress - he’s an alpha, after all - and there’s a limit on the time he can avoid talking to him.

 

Gingerly, Reid takes a deep breath and stands, unlocking the door to face his boss. Hotch stays quiet, expectant but not pushing.

 

“He smells like mate. How can that be possible, Hotch? What does that-” Reid chokes a little, swallows hard around the growing lump in his throat, and falls silent. Hotch doesn’t say anything right away, just reaches out to grip Reid’s hand where it’s locked over the crook of his elbow. He waits until Reid takes a couple of steadying breaths.

 

“Reid. We’ll handle it, whatever it may lead to.”

 

Hotch leads the way out of the bathroom, sending Reid back to their temporary office to talk to the others and to arrange transport for Winchester back to DC.

 

* * *

 

Sam shuffles along behind a pair of agents, surrounded by officers as they lead him out to a waiting vehicle. They’re on their way to the airstrip, and he can feel tension winding in his gut; he has no idea where they mean to take him or where his brother is. He just hopes Dean isn’t dumb enough to try to bust him out solo.

 

The agents of the Behavioral Analysis unit are in the vehicle ahead of them, both suburbans regulation black and inconspicuous as they drive the speed limit out of the little town toward the municipal airport. Sam’s trying and failing to ignore Lucifer belting out “On the Road Again” to cover up the silence in the car when the vehicle in front of them flips. There’s a beat, two, and no one can react before their own car is fishtailing and spinning, slamming into a tree as it skids into the ditch. Metal screeches as an invisible force rips at the doors and - once they’re off - Sam can hear the tell-tale growls of hellhounds. Officers are torn from their seats, flung screaming from the vehicle as Sam watches. One hound latches onto his chains and Sam clenches his eyes shut, preparing to be mauled. Instead, the thing snaps them, still snarling as it leaves the vehicle and a stunned Sam behind.

 

Outside of the car is chaos as Sam stumbles from the wreckage of the suburban. Agents from the other vehicle have crawled from their ruined car, and are making their way back towards Sam. Dead and dying officers are scattered all around, blood splattered across the ground. Lucifer is laughing behind him, loud and pleased as he follows Sam through the mess.

 

Agent Reid reaches him first, bloody but determined as he aims his gun directly at Sam’s chest. In a heartbeat, Sam goes from raising his hands in surrender to catching the agent as a hound barrels him over. A shot rings out, wild and Sam prepares himself for pain that never comes. Instead, the scenery around him shifts, blue sky that he only gets to see for a moment before the weight of Agent Reid knocks him to the ground. Strong hands haul Sam up, and Dean drags him in close, not paying any attention to the retching agent behind him.

 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is gruff, tight as he hugs Sam. The pressure digs a bit of the glass stuck in Sam’s shoulder deeper into his skin, and Lucifer has just enough time to shoot them a dirty look before he flickers out of existence. “I thought you were a goner, shit-”

 

A brief scuffle interrupts them, and Sam turns just in time to see Cas disarm Agent Reid. He looks frightened, to Sam’s surprise, sick flecking the corners of his mouth as he stares up at them. Blood trails down from his forehead, and there are bruises already rising on his face.

 

“Are you okay?” Sam asks softly. Agent Reid seems too dazed to answer; Dean huffs an impatient sound next to Sam.

 

“Why the hell is he here anyway. Cas?”

 

“He was touching your brother when I transported us. I couldn’t leave one while bringing the other,” Cas replies with a frown. He steps closer to hand Dean the agent’s gun. “I’ve fulfilled my promise. Farewell, Dean.”

 

And Cas is gone, leaving Sam’s brother looking broken-hearted for the briefest moments before his mask falls down over the expression. He lunges, then, latching onto Agent Reid and handcuffing him quickly before the younger man can put up more than a token struggle. Bobby’s house rises behind them, and Sam follows as Dean drags the agent towards it.

 

“Boys?” Bobby’s voice rings out over the piles of cars and scrap metal, wary and concerned all at once.

 

“He’s here, Bobby. We got him. Comin’ in. Gonna need the panic room,” Dean calls back.

 

Together, the brothers get the agent through the back door, Bobby bristling slightly with his shotgun in hand, but Agent Reid is quiet, even as Dean nudges him down the stairs to the basement. Bobby guides Sam to sit at the kitchen table, plunking a beer down at the table; Sam grasps it with shaky hands, taking the first swallow obediently under Bobby’s watchful eye.

 

“You alright, son?” A warm, heavy hand lands on Sam’s shoulder then, gripping tight. He means to nod, but Sam shakes his head instead, full shudders running down his spine; now that he’s safe, all the pent up fear and anxiety comes rushing out. Sam feels like he could fly apart if not for the solid weight of Bobby’s hand holding him down. Dean’s there, suddenly, cupping his face, talking to him low and easy the way he used to when Sam had a nightmare and Sam -

 

Sam sucks in a breath, and the world settles. Green eyes are focused on his, searching, the worried wrinkle between them only relaxing when Sam’ breathes out a “Hey.”

 

“There you are, kiddo. You’re alright.”

  


* * *

  


The cell Reid finds himself in is paranoia at its finest. Iron walls, heavy door, high ceiling; he shudders a little at the stains on the mattress and the pentagram etched into the floor. There’s a table on one side of the room, littered with books and papers; boxes of supplies rest on metal shelving and a single, tiny sink takes up the other side. A cot similar to the one Reid is sitting on leans against the wall, its mattress sagging with lack of use. The whole room smells a little musty, but fresh air comes down through the vent high above Reid’s heat - a vent whose cover consists of yet another pentagram.

 

He has no idea where he is, how he even got here, and Reid’s mind spins with possibilities. It could be hours, days after the crash between drugs and a head injury - but that’s only if he disregards how the injuries caused by the glass are still bleeding, his ears still ringing with the sounds of screams and screeching metal. It tears at him to not know if his team is alive, considering the unbelievable carnage made of the other officers.

 

Adrenaline burns off, letting exhaustion sink into Reid’s bones. It isn’t easy to get comfortable with his hands cuffed, but Reid manages to curl up on the too-short cot, shutting his eyes against the swirls of sigils on the wall.

 

* * *

 

Sam wakes up clear-headed for once the next day, extracting himself from the tangle of Dean’s limbs around him. Proximity to his brother always keeps Lucifer away, out of Sam’s dreams so he can rest, and they abandoned all pretense of machismo when it proved impossible for them to sleep apart. Dean snuffles a little, rolling onto his belly and shoving his face into his pillow as Sam pads out of the room.

 

Clinking from the kitchen gives away Bobby’s presence, and the old man acquiesces space at the stove when Sam starts whisking together eggs to go with the bacon and potatoes Bobby has frying.

 

“You doin’ alright?” Bobby asks, pouring them both coffee and plunking Sam’s down next to him on the counter.

 

“Yeah, I. I think so. I’m sorry about all this, Bobby.”

 

There’s a snort from behind Sam as the older man takes a seat at the table. “Hell, Sam. S’not your fault. You’re not the first hunter to get nabbed, we’re just lucky we were able to get you out before they vanished you; not everyone’s as wanted as you and your brother.”

 

Sam shakes his head; only from another hunter would being wanted by the FBI sound like praise. But that reminds him -

 

“So Cas. Is he?”

 

“Still all Godly? Yeah. Dean managed to talk him into gettin’ you back; said that God is supposed to care for his children. Worked, anyway, but who knows where the hell he is now. Jackass.”

 

It hurts, knowing Cas could be lost to the power in him, but how do you save someone from themselves, especially when they’re God? With another shake of his head, Sam goes back to his eggs, stirring them the way Dean had taught him all those years ago, getting them fluffy. The older Winchester comes stumbling down the stairs right about the time the potatoes are done, accepting his plate and cup of coffee with a sleepy mumble.

 

Breakfast goes remarkably well; with Dean so close, Sam’s able to enjoy the crisp bacon and slightly greasy potatoes that are Bobby’s speciality. He’s done first and washes his plate before remaking it to take to the agent downstairs.

 

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice is suddenly sharp, alert. “You sure you wanna do that?”

 

“It’s - he’s a good guy, Dean. It’s okay. Eat.” Sam can feel twin pairs of eyes on his back as he heads toward the basement door.

 

Reid is awake, near one of the tables when Sam opens the door. He startles a little, spinning around and backing away. Sam’s not surprised to see the handcuffs are gone, and he’s suddenly aware that he has no weapon on him. The cot rests between them, so that’s where Sam leaves the plate of food and cup of coffee.

 

“I didn’t know how you take it. You should eat.” It’s then that his eye catches sight of the blood dried on an otherwise pristine white shirt. “I - shit.” There’s a first aid kit on the table just outside the door, and Sam risks reaching out to snag it. He creeps forward to drop it beside the food. “I’m sorry you’re hurt. If you need anything that’s not in there, we’ve got more stuff upstairs. I’ll -I’ll be back at lunch.”

 

Lucifer’s laughing at him as Sam takes the stairs two at a time, breathing fast as guilt threatens to close his throat. Dean grabs him before he can make it out the door, arms wrapping around him tight and hanging on as the two of them crumple to the floor.

 

“Jesus, Sam, what happened?”

 

“He’s hurt and we didn’t- we didn’t-”

 

“Who? Christ, Sam, the fed? S’that what this is about?” Sam’s hearing fuzzes out right then; he can hear Dean and Bobby talking, but not the words being said. He tries to concentrate on Dean’s warmth, the solidity of the body pressed up close to his. It works, after a while; probably too long, judging by the ache in his knees, but the world is slowly edging its way back into focus.

 

“Dean?”

 

“Yeah, Sammy. I’m right here. You scared me, kid.”

 

“Bobby?”

 

“Downstairs. He’s gonna take a look at the fed. He’s gonna be alright, Sam.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam breathes shakily. “Yeah, okay.”

 

“C’mon. Upsy daisy, sasquatch, my knees are killin’ me.”

 

Normally, Sam hates being coddled, but with hell just at the fringes of his mind, he doesn’t mind it when Dean bundles him onto the couch and presses right up against his side. He flicks on some sitcom, canned laughter occupying the quiet of the house. It’s good, relaxing and them-normal and Dean smells like Sam’s body wash and Bobby’s shampoo.

 

“Thank you,” Sam whispers. “I know it’s not- it’s not easy, so. Thanks.”

 

“Shut up, Sam.” The sentiment is followed up with a squeeze, Dean talk for _you’re welcome_ and _I love you_.

 

* * *

  


“I missed you yesterday,” Reid says when Sam brings his lunch the next day. Sam just shrugs, grateful that at least Bobby had given the agent clean clothes. He looks less worn now, if a little edgy. “Your friend said you weren’t feeling well.”

 

“Yeah. I - I’m sorry we didn’t take care of you. You didn’t deserve that.”

 

Reid looks at him, calculating. “And you found that upsetting?”

 

“Wouldn’t you?” Sam doesn’t like the look the agent is giving him; he’s part of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, after all, and Sam really doesn’t feel like being analyzed right now. He grabs the lunch dishes and backs out, making sure to lock the door behind him.

 

“-going to have to figure out what to do. We can’t keep him here forever.”

 

“I know that Bobby, but he knows where we are. He knows where and who _you_ are. You think he’s not gonna tell the rest of his buddies about being held in your basement? They’ll make sure you die in prison.”

 

“Like I can’t vanish with the best of ‘em. Anyway, there’s more than one spell out there to make sure he doesn’t remember any of this. We’ll take him somewhere far off and turn him loose then.”

 

Dean and Bobby’s conversation drifts to Sam as he makes his way up the stairs, quieting little when he makes his way into the kitchen.

 

“You think we can make it stick?” Sam asks. “I mean. Even when the angels did it before it didn’t work. Not all the way. I still knew Dean was important to me.”

 

“Not everyone has a bond like you and your brother, though,” Bobby points out. “Any other person? I think we can find something to make it permanent enough. I’ve got a couple of contacts I’ve put calls out to, just to make sure we get it right.”

 

Sam spends his afternoon buried in research with Bobby, the two of them comparing notes as they go over various spells and translations, throwing some out when they prove too hinky and saving others to compare later. Muffled clanging comes from outside as Dean works on an old beater car; it’ll be kept for a spare for a hunter in need, as long as he can get it road-worthy. It’s a big enough project to keep him outside and busy with his hands since research makes him antsy these days.

 

It makes Sam nervous to hear the Impala leave, and Lucifer starts whispering about how he’s never coming back. Bobby seems to realize what’s going on, because he drags Sam into a conversation about the spells in the ‘maybe’ pile until Dean gets back with takeout.

 

“You don’t have to keep doin’ that, Sam,” Dean interjects as Sam picks up a couple of cartons to take downstairs to Reid. He just shrugs, nabbing one of the wrapped plastic forks to take with him.

 

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.” Not like Dean does, Sam knows.

 

The agent is reading one of Bobby’s lore books, cross-legged on the bed when Sam pulls the door open. Sam’s only made it halfway to the bed when the smell hits him and his belly clenches. Heat races over his body, skin prickling as he sucks in another breath, two and Agent Reid is scrambling off the bed away from him.

 

Alpha.

 

Carelessly, Sam darts forward to drop the takeout cartons on the bed, bolting from the room and just managing to lock it before the next wave of heat nearly knocks him to his knees. Coffee and cardamom clog his senses, thick and cloying and it should be satisfying to finally find his mate but all Sam does is manage to retch up some of his supper before he gets control of his body.

 

Reid’s low growl just reaches Sam’s ears through the door, and he can feel his heart pick up pace; they’re both running mostly on instinct, trying desperately to temper it with logic. Boots clatter on the stairs, and Sam goes willingly when Dean hauls him upright and practically carries him to the top floor of the house. Smart to get him as far away from the other alpha as possible; Sam’s aware enough to be grateful that his omega submits to Dean’s alpha, recognizing pack and allowing himself to be dragged away from his mate.

 

* * *

  


Anger bubbles up inside Reid as he scents Dean Winchester, an alpha, near his mate. He swallows it back, the growl building in his chest nearly choking him as he tries to stifle it. Alpha instincts are strong, but Reid’s determined that his mind won’t be overridden. The further away Sam gets, the easier it is to think and the same horror that Reid experienced back at the precinct wells back up his throat.

 

Mates are meant to be compatible persons, not only genetically, but emotionally and physically and Reid can feel the knowledge that his mate is a serial killer tearing at his heart.

 

 _Does it speak to my own predisposition? Has my interest in serial killers meant that someone like_ Sam _is what I’ve conditioned myself to want? And what does that say about me?_ Thoughts swirl in Reid’s mind as he tries to clear his airways of Sam’s warm scent.

 

“Fuck.”

 

Lo mein splatters against the wall of Reid’s crude prison, carton splitting from the force with which it’s thrown.

 

* * *

  


“Jesus, Sam,” Dean murmurs. Sam knows he’s worried, can scent it on his brother, but heat ripples painfully inside him; it’s too hard to focus on Dean, on the cold pack he keeps trying to press to Sam’s forehead, on anything that isn’t wantwantwant.

 

“Dean. Hurts.”

 

“Yeah, kiddo, I bet.” There’s a shuffling next to Sam, then Dean’s tugging Sam’s sweaty clothes off, dropping them carelessly on the floor. Cool skin touches Sam’s as Dean slides into bed next to him, holding Sam close. The familiar scent of cinnamon and whiskey wafts up to Sam as he nestles his face into the curve of Dean’s throat. It’s good, soothing, but not quite what Sam’s omega wants.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Yeah. ‘Course.”

 

Dean’s proximity makes it easier for Sam to think, settles some of the burning under his skin. Fear starts to creep up in the absence of mating drive, and Sam knows Dean can sense it as his brother’s hold goes tight.

 

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Sam. All we gotta do is get you through this, then he’ll be gone and you won’t have to worry about it, okay?”

 

“Okay. Okay,” Sam whispers. He clings to his brother and closes his eyes, reaching for the sleep that his heat-fever thankfully offers.   


 

* * *

 

Waking hurts like a bitch, cramps rolling through Sam’s belly. The fever’s gone down some thanks to Dean’s closeness, but Sam is still craving. Realistically, he knows there may not be any waiting his heat out; now that he’s met a true mate - one of a handful truly compatible people - his body could well demand that he accept them or die, and Sam’s not so sure death isn’t preferable to being mated to an FBI agent.

 

Dean slips out at some point while Sam dozes, returning to wipe Sam down with a cool cloth and to try to coax him into drinking some Omegalyte that Bobby had run into town for. The older Winchester stays close, holding Sam when his fever spikes and making him drink when Sam can think straight enough to swallow properly.

 

Bobby comes up around noon, bearing two plates of food and a somber look. Sam barely stirs his food around on his plate, taking the couple bites Dean forces on him before he cracks.

 

“He’s sick, isn’t he?”

 

It’s silent for one long, tense moment. “Yeah. He is.”

 

Next to Sam, Dean’s practically vibrating in rage, but he sticks beside Sam, propping the younger up. Sam manages a few more bites and finishes off his recent bottle of Omegalyte before pushing himself upright.

 

“Dean. Help?” Sam hates to ask; Dean’s going to feel like shit for taking Sam to the basement, but there’s no way for Sam to make it on his own. Dutifully, Dean loops strong arms around his brother and gingerly helps Sam down the stairs.

 

Pitiful whines reach Sam’s ears, twisting at his chest and making tears prick at his eyes; only bad, careless omegas let their alphas get hurt and Sam’s too weak to tell his hardwiring to fuck off. Bobby gets ahead of them to throw the other mattress on the floor and pile the sparse blankets around it. He leaves Omegalyte by the makeshift bed, and gives Sam a gentle pat on the cheek before heading back upstairs.

 

“Sammy-”

 

“Dean. I- I have to. M’sorry.” Sam whimpers a little as Dean helps him settle on the mattress, accepts the kiss to the forehead that Dean gives.

 

“Don’t be. It’ll be okay, Sam. We’ll figure it out, just . . . be careful, okay?”

 

Then Dean is gone, the lock clicking as the door shuts behind him. Reid is watching Sam warily from the bed, face drawn and pale despite the bright spots of flush in his cheeks. Tiredly, Sam lays back amongst scratchy army blankets and the bare fabric of the mattress. With a low whine, he bares his throat submissively.

 

Reid is on him in an instant, panting and not quite as strong as a healthy alpha should be, but stronger than Sam as he drapes himself over the omega, pressing his face into Sam’s neck. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, hot and damp and Sam almost hates how good he smells.

 

“Not your fault. Just don’t - don’t kill me.”

 

“No,” Reid gasps, rut hitting him hard and then they’re lost. Limbs get tangled in clammy clothing, nails rake over delicate skin, and teeth leave bruising marks over all the flesh they can reach. There’s only one pause during which Reid’s cock lays heavily against Sam’s belly, and slick leaks from Sam to stain the mattress below. They look at each other for just a moment before who they are gives way to what they are: alpha and omega.

 

Sam moans quietly when Reid nips his throat, spreading his legs to make room for the alpha between them. His body welcomes the thick length of cock that pushes inside him, spreading him achingly, satisfyingly wide. They rut frantically, chasing a tie regardless of the state of their bodies, and when Reid’s knot finally sinks into Sam in time with his teeth, Sam shouts wordlessly at the ceiling.

 

It’s almost stunningly silent in the aftermath, panted breaths and gentle rustling as they shift. Sam can already feel his fever plummeting, leaving him damp and shivering. Reid is lapping at the bite on Sam’s neck, coaxing it to start healing. That, of course, is when the tension kicks in.

 

“We - we should not have done this,” Reid breathes.

 

“We would’ve died. Not that that wasn’t preferable.” Sam doesn’t quite mean to put that much bite into his words, and he feels guilty as soon as he sees the alpha flinch. Lucifer starts up in the corner then, whispering about how Sam’s always been a slut, good little omega slut, ready for a knot and-

 

“Hey, heyheyhey.” Cool fingers on his cheek, brown eyes focused on his. “Don’t look at him. He’s not real.”

 

An aftershock shivers its way through Sam then, making him clench hard around Reid’s knot - and Lucifer disappears. Reid drops to his elbows, boxing Sam in, warming him up as more shivers race through him, and they rest in silence until their tie breaks. Sam gulps down more Omegalyte when it’s pressed into his hand, Reid going for water, the two of them in the most awkward standoff Sam’s ever been a part of.

 

“What . . . will you do with me?” Reid asks softly.

 

“We never wanted to hurt you,” Sam winces at the speed with which he speaks, but fumbles on. “I- I swear. I know you think we’re crazy and I’m not exactly not with the whole -” he waves vaguely, but Reid seems to get it. “But I don’t. I don’t want to go to prison. Whatever you believe, I don’t deserve that and neither does Dean and - and I guess if that means keeping you with us, then. . .” Sam shrugs. He feels awful saying it, but it’s true; going with Reid back to the FBI would only mean being used as bait for his brother, assuming the feds didn’t rip him from his newfound mate and make him vanish like hunters sometimes did. “I’m sorry.”

 

The scent of fear and disappointment washes over Sam then, bitterness that ruins Reid’s otherwise-warm scent. Nothing more is said, even when they untie. Sam curls himself up on the mattress, using one of the thick wool blankets to cover the wet spot and draping another to cover what it can of his naked form. They have another day or so before their respective heat and rut will pass fully, and Sam’s already dreaming of the moment he can get out of the panic room.

 

* * *

 

Reid watches Sam sleep for a while. The omega looks peaceful, innocent curled up like an overgrown child beneath ratty army surplus blankets. He smells sweet and rich, honeyed spice warm and thick on his tongue and Reid finds his mouth watering in spite of himself. Still, anxiety tingles under his skin, and he finds himself cleaning up his wasted lo mein just for something to do - anything to help him keep his hands and cock away from the other man for as long as he can stand it.

 

Unfortunately, an hour is about the extent of what Reid can stand. Rut drives him back onto the bed, and - once he’s awake - Sam is more than willing to take another knot. In the aftermath of each tie, Reid fumes quietly; he’s always hated the loss of control that goes with mating, and now that he’s bound to an omega he’d rather put behind bars than breed -

 

* * *

  


“Shit.” With a jerk, Reid pulls free a little too soon, making Sam yelp in pain as the knot drags his tender rim outward before popping loose. “I don’t imagine that you’re on birth control. I can’t smell it on you.”

 

Wincing, Sam rolls himself over. “No. I’m sterile. Always have been.” Reid’s eyebrows go up, and Sam sighs a little, dropping his gaze. He’s learned to hate the pity that comes when people find out he’s barren; he’d decided long ago that it’s a blessing in disguise, considering he’d rather die than bring a child into the hunting life.

 

“Not to be insensitive, but that may not be a bad thing.”

 

Sam looks up, a bit surprised to find that Reid is serious. “Yeah, I’ve always kind of thought so.”

 

They’re saved from another awkward pause by the click of the lock. Bobby’s got food and more Omegalyte, plus a fresh first aid kit and a bundle of fresh clothes tucked under one arm.

 

“Good to see you boys are alive. Sam, you alright?” Jerking a blanket over his lap with a blush, Sam stutters out an affirmative. “Easy, kid. Nothin’ I haven’t seen. You two need to eat; then, Sam? We need you upstairs. Bring the alpha.”

 

Together, they tear into sandwiches and and fresh produce, Reid unflinchingly cracking open one of the bottles of Omegalyte and drinking it down. Sam finishes first and gives himself a sponge bath in the sink; it’s not quite enough to get the feeling of all the ick off of him, but it’s better than going upstairs covered in slick and come.

 

Some of the clothes are his, and he tugs those on, feeling like himself for the first time in days. The other are unfamiliar, new-smelling and those he leaves for Reid.

 

“C’mon. Don’t try to escape, though,” Sam murmurs, heading toward the door.

 

Bobby left the panic room door unlocked, and there’s a tense moment when they reach the top of the stairs  when Sam’s sure Reid is going to bolt. Instead, the alpha follows him to the kitchen. Chairs scrape across the floor as Bobby and Dean shove themselves to their feet. Sam nudges Reid toward a chair, and the alpha obediently sits.

 

Papers are scattered across the table, as well as Dean’s tablet. The sound is muted, but Sam can see captions skittering across the bottom of the screen. Pestilence and miracles around the world, all unexplainable but for “the grace of God” according to the headlines.

 

“Cas?” Sam asks, already knowing the answer as his stomach sinks.

 

“Cas. He’s gone full-on avenging angel. Look at this.” The video feed from the bank is grainy, but Cas gets close enough for them to get a good look at him. Black veins snake their way up his neck and there’s not a hint of their friend left in mad-looking eyes.

 

“Fuck.”

 

“You guys really believe all of this, don’t you?” Forgotten for the briefest of moments, Reid’s comment gets all three hunters’ heads jerking up from where they were focused on the media scattered on the table.

 

“Yeah, we do.” Dean’s response is flat, challenging. “And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that feds never believe what they can’t see with their own eyes. So let’s go.”

 

Dean stands up, and Sam’s gobsmacked for a moment until his brother is dropping a necklace over Reid’s head. It glows once it settles, and, despite his best attempts, Reid isn’t able to pull it off.

 

“Sorry, but we had to make sure you couldn’t just run off. Can’t take it off, either.” He keeps walking, heading out the back door and clearly expecting them to follow. There’s a circle etched into the ground, a summoning circle surrounded by a bigger devil’s trap. Sam sucks in a breath when he realizes what Dean intends to do, but a look from his brother has him wilting; this, honestly, might be their best option without Cas in the picture.

 

Reid and Sam stand back while Bobby and Dean do the summoning. The demon sneers at them, eyes flicking black as it gets sprinkled with holy water.

 

“You might want to keep a careful eye on your pet alpha, Winchester,” the thing spits at Sam just before Dean finishes the exorcism. The person left behind crumples to the ground, and Dean edges up just enough to check for a pulse.

 

“Holy shit. He’s alive. Fuck.”

 

“What’re you going to do with him?” There’s fear and confusion bleeding out of Reed, tempered with concern for the man laying on the ground.

 

“Take him to the hospital. ER will take care of him, get him back to where ever he came from.”

 

“I’m coming with you.”

 

Sam just nods in response to Reid. He’s not sure exactly what the parameters of the amulet around Reid’s neck are, but - when Dean doesn’t argue - he’s sure it’ll at least keep the agent from fleeing. Together, he and Dean carry the unconscious man to the car, settling him in the back seat. Reid slides in behind him at Dean’s instruction, and the brothers pile into the front. It’s a bit of a drive from Bobby’s to Sioux Falls proper, and the silence reigns awkwardly until Dean flicks on the radio to the KROW so that rock floods the interior.

 

Thankfully, the ER seems to be fairly busy when they get there, and the guy has stirred a little as well. He stumbles toward the door with a little prodding, Dean waiting until he’s out of sight before wheeling out of the parking lot.

 

“You just . . . leave them?”

 

“Some people will just chalk it up to a bad dream or a bad trip, whatever their vice is. Some will be fucked up about it, yeah, but it’s not like we’re counselors or anything. Best place for them is with the professionals, even if they’ll try to tell them it’s some kind of psychotic break. Most people don’t do well with the truth.” Dean speaks softly, only glancing into his rearview mirror once the entire time.

 

“Why did you think I would?”

 

“You’ve already seen monsters. You just deal in the human kind; we get the rest. Really, if anyone’s capable of dealing with this shit, it’s you, s’long as you’re willing to keep an open mind.”

 

“And that . . . thing, back there. What was it?”

 

“A demon. We summoned it, one that was already walking around above ground, then exorcised it. Sends it right back to hell. If we’re lucky - and we were this time - the poor bastard it’s possessing will still be alive. Sometimes they’re not, because the demon’s been shot or something. Thing will keep the body moving, but a lot of the time it’s already dead before someone gets to it.”

 

There’s no more talking, then, just Lucifer humming off-key to Blue Oyster Cult in the back seat. Thankfully, he doesn’t do much more than hum and grin menacingly at Sam whenever he glances into the rearview mirror. Sure, there are flames dancing along the Impala’s dashboard, but he’s already dealt with much worse.

 

Smoke curls up in the distance as they get closer to the salvage yard, and the Impala roars as Dean pushes the accelerator closer to the floor. A black pile of ash rests where Bobby’s house used to be, and Sam can feel bile rising in his throat. One shot, two, rings off the Impala’s body, and they go scrambling out the opposite side. There’s a single demon that comes marching out of the pile of cars, aiming right for them. Sam sees the devil’s trap, but Dean doesn’t and he winds up dragging his brother back out of the line of fire.

 

A sick lurch of relief burns through him when Bobby’s voice rings out over the piles of cars, reciting the exorcism in a familiar, pissed-off tone. He curses in the middle, and another shot rings out; Sam picks up the Latin where Bobby left off, and he can hear the scream of the demon as it’s yanked from its host.

 

Dean’s off like a shot, circling around from the left, leaving Sam to take the right. Agent Reid’s training shines through as he sticks by Sam’s side while they weave through the junkyard. They find Bobby pinned down by another two demons. Sam can just see Dean’s position on the other side, and he waits for the signal he knows his brother is going to give.

 

“Just tell us where the Winchesters are, Singer. They’re who we want,” one of the demons calls out.

 

“Like hell!” Bobby yells back.

 

A glance back at Dean, then Sam’s flying out of his hiding place, slamming his shoulder into the demon closest to him, the two of them going rolling in the dirt. He vaguely registers Dean’s grunts of pain and Bobby’s voice reciting the exorcism. A fist plows into his ribs, leaving him breathless and struggling to keep his grip on the demon as his lungs fight for air. It nearly slips away from him, until a shot sends it flying back into his grip. Twin clouds of black smoke swirl above he and Dean for a moment before rocketing down through the earth.

 

Blood pours down onto Sam’s shirt, and he rolls them over to get pressure on the shoulder wound. The young woman below him looks up with frightened eyes, but thankfully doesn’t seem to be hurt otherwise.

 

“You’re okay. We gotcha, it’s gonna be alright. It’s gone,” he murmurs as tears well up and start trickling down her temples. She nods a little, closing her eyes. The guy Dean had been fighting isn’t so lucky. Several bullet holes make themselves known, blood pooling under him and Dean whispers apologetically to him as the man bleeds out in a matter of seconds.

 

“Fuck.” Dean shoves himself up and away, helping Bobby out from between the cars he’d wedged himself behind. There’s ash smeared across his face and blood on his shirt. He’s dragging their duffle bags behind him, and Dean scoffs a little. “You tellin’ me the demons gave you time to pack?”

 

“Call it instinct. Saw some odd weather patterns comin’. Decided maybe I should take cover,” Bobby mutters. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here before more show up.”

 

A shaky Reid appears out from where Sam had left him, and he quietly helps Sam get the injured young woman up and out to the Impala. Bobby shakes off a concerned Dean to go get his battered work truck and they caravan into town.

 

Sam talks to the young woman - Laura - quietly in the back of the car while they drive into town. She only cries a little as she talks, shaking a bit as she accepts a handkerchief from Sam to dab at her eyes. Laura’s an accountant from Kentucky, and she’s only been possessed a few weeks, but the damage has been done. She describes watching her own hands shoot and strangle people, and Sam knows she’s going to have nightmares about them covered in blood. Every now and again, Sam catches Reid’s eye in the rearview; there’s empathy there, understanding, and a knowledge so familiar it makes Sam shiver.

 

They drop Laura off at the ER, tucking one of their cards with an alias of Sam’s on it into her palm. She whispers a thanks as she clambers out and limps toward the entrance.

 

Bobby’s waiting for them at one of the gas stations outside of town. Sam changes shirts in the car so he can join Dean inside to get them supplies. Bobby uses the restroom first, then keeps an eye on Reid while Sam and Dean take their turn. Everyone grabs their own staples, enough to hold them down until the next stop.

 

“Should make it to Rapid City,” Dean comments, and Bobby nods in agreement.

 

“Boys keep your ears on, alright?”

 

“You got it. Just try to keep up, old man.”

 

It’s 17 hours to Rufus’ cabin in Montana. Since Dean’s obviously intent on taking first shift driving, Sam settles back into his seat.

 

“Where are we going?” Reid pipes up from the backseat, sounding more concerned than he probably intends to.

 

“Friend’s cabin. So we can hole up there til we get a better grasp of what’s going down. Rufus is a paranoid old bastard, so not many folks know where it is.”

 

“And you’re not going to tell me, I take it?”

 

“Not until we get a tattoo or a charm on you to keep you from getting possessed. Once a demon gets in your head, it knows all the things you know, and hard telling who it’ll spill all your secrets to.”

 

“I see.”

 

“You understand why we can’t let you go, right? Even if you believe us?” Sam feels like he’s drowning in guilt as he turns around to talk to the agent in the back seat. Reid looks tired, dirty and worn, and his curly hair hangs limply around his face. It’s hard to picture the demanding alpha of less than 24 hours ago.

 

“I do. I don’t particularly like it, but yes. I understand.”

 

* * *

  


Rufus’ cabin isn’t much to brag about, but the bare necessities are there. Once Dean gets the generator rolling, they all work to get the beds made up, stripping the dustiest of the sheets and replacing them only slightly-less-musty ones from the trunks. There’s a double in each bedroom plus a fold-out sofa that an ever-paranoid Dean claims for himself; it’s not a bad deal, honestly, because the mattress in it has obviously been replaced at some point and mostly left unused. A slightly awkward moment where the other men realize someone’s going to have to share, but Sam’s too tired from doing his share of driving and the events of the past week to argue much.

 

“You can sleep with me or on the floor, but I wouldn’t risk the floor unless you want to catch something.”

 

It’s obviously the right thing to say, as Reid follows him into one of the rooms, both of them collapsing on musty sheets and creaky springs. Sam hasn’t shared a bed with anyone since Jess, but exhaustion hits him so hard that he can’t mind the unfamiliar body behind him.

 

Too soon, Dean’s banging on the door, announcing that there’s breakfast and coffee in his sleepy voice. Sam can smell the bacon already, and it’s only the promise of Bobby’s well-practiced balance of crispy edges and soft fat that gets Sam out of bed. Bacon, eggs, and strong, hot coffee make Sam glad they took the time to stop at the store in town, no matter how tired and grumpy they’d been at the time.

 

Dean scarfs down his plate and retreats to the couch, curled up like a sleepy kid with his mug in hand. There are shadows under his eyes and papers piled on the low coffee table nearby; it strikes Sam, then, how hard having Cas be the big bad they’re after must be on Dean. His brother will never admit it, but Cas . . . Cas is a lot closer than family. Sam knows it, and he’s sure Bobby does, too, but - in their lives - the time is hardly ever right to have those kinds of talks, especially considering the whirlwind the last few years have been. Sam’s still cursing himself for sending Dean back to Lisa when he took his dive into the Cage; if he’d known then what he knows now, he would’ve begged Cas to keep his brother close, to find Dean a safe place to live, a home base to hunt from. He says a quiet prayer to no one into his coffee that they can get Cas back safe, for Dean’s sake if nothing else.

 

Bobby starts making calls as soon as they’ve got breakfast cleared away. He has duplicates of his library stashed around the country, storage units and hidey holes that only he knows all the locations of. It’s going to put a damper on their research without his library at their fingertips, but hopefully the hunter network will rally behind one of their best.

 

There’s a rare moment when Reid goes to use the bathroom and Bobby’s yelling at Garth on his cell phone outside, leaving the brothers alone. Sam reaches out just enough to brush Dean’s shoulder with his fingers.

 

“We’ll get him back, Dean. It’ll be okay.”

 

For a second, it looks like Dean is going to bat Sam’s hand away. Instead, he grips Sam’s fingers for the briefest of seconds, lets his vulnerability show before it’s shuttered behind his hunter’s mask. Reid’s standing there when Sam looks away from Dean, and his expression is so calculating that Sam knows that he saw their interaction.

 

“You love each other,” Reid murmurs to him in the dark that night.

 

They have. They do. “We can’t,” is all Sam says. Reid doesn’t push, and a tentative arm rests itself around Sam’s waist, relaxing when Sam doesn’t push it away. Sam breathes, allowing the scent of alpha - _his_ alpha - to wash over him and relax him into sleep.

 

* * *

  


Spencer Reid can read 20,000 words per minute. He tears through the lore faster than Sam can fathom, fast enough that he gets a few edgy looks from Bobby when he starts in on some of the more delicate books. Sam works on the Italian texts while Dean takes the Latin and Bobby digs into more obscure languages. They’ve got an alert set up for any God-related happenings that Dean skims over now and again, trying to keep tabs on their rogue angel. There are things here and there that look promising, others that are definitely Cas, but none they’re willing to send other hunters to check out; tailing the angel-turned-God isn’t worth getting their circle of friends smited.

 

“Damnit Cas,” Dean grumbles, shoving his chair back from the table and heading outside. The others just watch him go, at ease when the Impala’s engine doesn’t start up. Sam drags the laptop around just enough to read the article that sent Dean running, and what he finds turns his stomach.

 

An office full of people, smited because they worked for a corrupt politician. It’s a bloodbath and Cas - Cas barely looks like himself in the footage linked along with the story. His face is pitted, much like Lucifer’s was toward the end; clearly, Jimmy Novak was never meant to hold the population of Purgatory on top of the grace of a seraph. It’s a sign that time is ticking away for their friend, and who knows what happens to the rest of those souls if Cas’ vessel gives way.

 

“Dean,” Sam says softly, stepping outside the cabin. His brother’s propped up against the Impala, cigarette in his hand as he stares off into the trees. He doesn’t protest when Sam takes the barely-smouldering cigarette and crushes it beneath his boot. “Dean.”

 

“We’re - I’m gonna lose him, Sammy.”

 

Dropping to the dirt beside Dean, Sam draws him into a one-armed hold. The Impala shields them as Dean cries silently into Sam’s neck, hands fisted in his brother’s worn flannel. Tears slow and peter out into quiet sniffles. Sam’s got a handkerchief that he digs out of his pocket and Dean accepts it quietly.

 

“We’ll get him back. Somehow, Dean, we’ll get him back. We’ve faced worse.”

 

And - in a fucked up way - it’s true. From Yellow Eyes to losing Dad and apocalypse? Saving one angel doesn’t seem impossible in comparison - assuming, of course, they can find something about how to strip the souls from Cas and -

 

“Shit.” Scrambling up inelegantly, Sam hauls Dean to his feet and races into the cabin.

 

“Sam, Sam what the fuck, where’s the fire?” Dean demands, stumbling along behind his brother. Bobby and Reid look alarmed as Sam digs through his haphazard piles of books and notes, dropping what he doesn’t need on the table and floor.

 

“This,” he breathes, flipping a book open to a marked spot, spreading out his notes next to it. “The souls amplify Cas’ power. If we take that power away, there’s nothing to amplify, right?”

 

It’s a Hail, Mary, one of the worst things Sam could think to do to their friend, but if it’s the only way . . .

 

“Strip his grace. Open the portal, strip his grace and we’d have Cas. Just Cas, no angel mojo, no souls, no ‘New God’.”

 

Sam knows it’s crazy. All he has to do is look at Dean and Bobby’s expressions. There’s horror mixed with fear at first, but then Bobby gets that look that Sam knows too well.

 

“I’ve got that spell they used. Copied it down as best I could. That shouldn’t be a problem but you really think this can strip an angel of its grace?”

 

The spell Sam’s got laid out is meant to steal power. Typically used by witches against their rivals, it relies on the original caster’s ability to control the power stolen. There’s a beat or two before Bobby curses low, and Sam has to fight to keep his gaze up.

 

“What?” Dean asks, eyes darting between them. “What is it?”

 

“Someone has to take his grace. The caster, whoever it is, takes on the power.”

 

There’s a beat, and then- “I’m a vessel. If I can hold Michael, I can hold on to Cas’ grace.”  


It’s the response Sam and Bobby both knew Dean was going to give the moment they understood what the spell would do. They trade a glance, and Sam opens his mouth to speak, but Dean doesn’t let him get there.

 

“I know. But Sammy. I have to try. You gotta know that. Whatever else happens. . . I can’t just let him go.”

 

“Yeah. I get it,” Sam says softly. Fear is already curling in his gut as he takes his chair, pulling his work back toward him to start ironing things out. He hates it, almost, that he feels comforted when Reid rests a careful hand on his knee below the table, but it eases some of the ache in Sam’s chest.

 

* * *

  


“This could kill him,” Sam whispers in the dark that night. He’s got an arm wrapped around Reid’s waist, holding him close out sheer need and the alpha allows it.

 

“I thought as much. Magic - if all of this is real - seems rather unforgiving.” Wiggling a little, Reid manages to turn himself over in Sam’s arms. “It also seems the odds are in your favor, such as they are. If everything you’ve told me is to be believed, then you two are some of the only people in existence who can save your friend.”

 

Quiet takes them then, each lost in their own thoughts. They’re intimately close, more than they have been since their time in the panic room, and Sam suddenly feels awkward for assuming his touch is welcome, although Reid didn’t turn him away.

 

“It’s okay,” Reid murmurs, gently reaching up to touch Sam’s cheek, halting his retreat. “With most people, touch bothers me. But you . . . we are mates, after all. My body cannot find it in itself to be repulsed by you.”

 

An odd statement to be sure, but the alpha is definitely more than a little odd. Sam takes it for the comfort it’s meant as, settling back into their shared warmth beneath the blankets. Watching Reid sleep, tousled curls along his forehead, Sam aches in a way he didn’t think he ever would.

 

* * *

  


Tracking down “God,” as it turns out, is an easier task than expected. He’s working a steady track across the south, chasing radical evangelicals and predatory parishioners from their pews and pulpits. Some refuse to budge. Those are left as burnt out corpses in Cas’ wake. Others flee, disappearing with their families with seemingly no trace.

 

“We’re just gonna have to go. Find a town in his path with a shady church and hunker down until he shows up. It’s the only way,” Bobby finally says. His face shows the wear of constant research more than the rest of them, and guilt twists Sam up inside as the older hunter hauls himself to his feet, heading for the coffee pot. Cutting him off at the pass, Sam nudges him toward the hall.

 

“Sleep. We’ll find something, right, Dean?”

 

“Yeah. Go on, old man. We got this.”

 

Bobby grumbles at the “old man” jab, but goes anyway, his snores ghosting down the hall as soon as the creaking of the bed springs stops.

 

“Sam?” Reid says softly. “I believe this would be the most logical place to go.”

 

He’d hung a map on the wall, the tattered paper carefully held in place with tape and push pins. Red pins mark all the towns Cas has hit so far, and a black one marks the city Reid has in mind.

 

“It’s directly in his path and the pastor of the baptist church has been the subject of numerous rumors regarding his behavior outside the church itself.”

 

Cheating, extortion, soliciting. Sam skims over the articles Reid has to offer and nods. It fits the bill. They just have to hope they can get there in time.

 

Dean snags Sam by the arm just before they head to bed, bags packed and cars ready for their early morning departure.

 

“Sam. You sure we should be followin’ his lead?”

 

“We don’t have time to waste questioning it. It’s a solid plan, Dean, and who knows when we’ll catch the next break.” Brushing a hand along Dean’s arm, Sam gives his brother’s shoulder a squeeze. “We’re close, Dean. We have to try.”

 

It seems to soothe Dean enough for him to bid Sam goodnight and head back to the fold-out. Sam wishes he felt as sure, even as he’s pressed back-to-back with Reid in their bed.  

 

* * *

  


The town looks like any other small town, the motel like any of the others they’ve ever stayed in. It almost feels anticlimactic, a parody of a setting for something that’s going to change their lives from this point forward.

 

Bobby’s got a single room adjoining Sam and Dean’s double and - despite the brief moment of hesitance when they first settled in - Dean doesn’t say anything when he’s reminded that Sam will likely be sharing with Reid. In all honesty, it’s a bit dangerous; they’re true mates, and proximity is only going to tie their bond up tighter, but there’s not much to be done now, not with Reid tied to them.

 

Reid keeps his head down for the most part, helping where he can and staying quiet where he can’t. Sam almost feels like he’s a case study beneath those calculating eyes, but there’s no malice or disgust there, only curiosity. It twists Sam up a little to know that when - if - Reid returns to his team, he’ll have more on them and how they work than any of the other agents they’ve had contact with.

 

Dressed in their best clothes, they go to church; Sam and Reid take the early service, Bobby and Dean the mid-morning. They’re careful not to pray, whether out loud or in their minds, just in case Cas is listening; it could cost more than they can afford right now should he catch onto their plans.

 

“He’s a predator,” Reid breathes quietly after their very first Sunday. “They’re willfully blind if they don’t see that.”

 

And Sam knows that. He knows, from all the sketchy people that have ever looked at Dean or himself a little too much or too closely when they were young. He knows from the monsters that turn out to be humans doing monstrous things, to the tiny tally in the back of his mind of the few humans he and Dean have purposefully made disappear after figuring out just who was haunting the days and dreams of the children involved. He also knows how badly people don’t want to believe in monsters, and how badly they don’t want the ones they love and admire to be comparable to the things that lurk in the dark and prey on the innocent.

 

Castiel arrives near the end of a early Sunday service, as the children are getting restless and the mothers are starting to gather up scattered belongings before the final prayer. His skin has worsened, his eyes bloodshot, and he lists as he stumbles down the aisle. Sam swears he can see flickers of grace in the places the rotting of his vessel has gone through skin and muscle.

 

They’re up and moving, Reid following Sam up the aisle and just short of the angel. The screaming starts as soon as someone catches sight of their guns, and it's only out of sheer luck that the congregation choose flight over fight and that none pull a gun of their own. Standing stock-still behind his pulpit, the pastor watches with wide eyes as Cas advances on him, and Sam and Reid move around to flank him.

 

Bobby and Dean burst in just as the last civilian flees, stepping over discarded hats and children’s toys as they make their way down the aisle. Cas’ focus remains on the pastor, who’s now realized that he may be in danger and is backing away from the approaching angel.

 

Sam’s heart rockets into his throat when armed agents barrel their way in behind Bobby and Dean, but his instinctive yell is cut off by Reid.

 

“Hotch _no_.”

 

Agent Hotchner looks at Reid briefly, gun still trained at Dean and Bobby’s backs while the rest of the team positions themselves along the back of the church. Several of them allow their gazes to wander, instinctive need to check on their once-lost teammate. Reid’s moving out of position, away from the flank and to the center, directly in the line of fire with his arms held out and his gun hanging harmlessly from one hand.

 

Sam thinks he might be sick.

 

“Reid. Stand down. You’re safe now, just -”

 

Cas reaches for the pastor, hand glowing with grace and a shot rings out, just over Reid and Bobby, sinking into the angel’s shoulder. Glowing eyes land on them as Cas turns unsteadily, and the sound of angel voice sends them all to their knees as the windows in the church explode.

 

Dean’s up first, already chanting and Sam’s not far behind him, shoving through cluttered pews to get to Reid and Bobby, offering himself up as the shield as his brother works. Power swirls around them, making his muscles twitch and shudder even as he helps the others to their feet. Bobby scrambles to set up the spell to open Purgatory as Sam and Reid use themselves to create a shield between the hunters and the BAU.

 

“Let him go, the pastor, too,” Morgan barks out, creeping toward them with Hotch at his back and Jareau at the door.

 

“Go,” Sam breathes, nudging Reid with his shoulder. “If - I won’t stop you.” It’s so quiet as to nearly be lost beneath Dean’s voice and the rising volume of the wind spinning through the church, but he can tell that the agent’s heard him. Hazel eyes skitter towards Sam, surprise and fear crystal clear. Gingerly, Sam reaches out and yanks the necklace off the alpha’s neck. “Go on, Spencer.”

 

“I can’t,” he whispers, looking as shocked at his own words as Sam feels. “Hotch, please -”

 

Whatever plea Spencer had been about to issue gets washed away by a concussive force from behind him. Sam barely manages to fling himself atop the smaller man, shielding him as best he can while it feels like the church is exploding around them. Bobby lands hard next to Sam’s legs, but his cursing gets lost in the ripple of sound that makes Sam’s ears ring.

 

As quickly as it begins, it’s over. Sam rolls off of Reid. Dean’s there, whole and solid and moving, catching Cas as he crumples to the ground. There’s a flicker of energy around them, the vaguest hint of wings against the wall. The Purgatory sigil is smoking and cracked, tingling below Sam’s feet as he crosses it.

 

“Dean?”

 

Green eyes, backlit by bluish-white, turn to focus on Sam and he has to stop himself from taking a step back.

 

“Sammy. S’okay. I’ve got it.”

 

As Sam watches, the pockmarks on Cas’ face fade and the bullet wound in his shoulder closes. Dean’s cradling him like he’s something precious, body curved protectively around the angel. With a soft glow, grace bleeds from Dean’s mouth and back into Cas.

 

“Sam.” Gently, Reid touches Sam’s arm, getting him to turn. Several of the agents are littered with cuts, most looking stunned, but two - Jareau and Morgan - have their weapons trained on the hunters and angel. Sam feels his stomach sink when he spots Bobby, handcuffed and looking pissed about it on one of the back pews.

 

“Spencer. You know we’re telling the truth. Please.” It’s unfair, but Sam reaches through their bond and tugs at his alpha, flooding his desperation through it. Spencer’s face twists, and his grip on Sam’s arm turns from restraining to soothing. “They’ll never believe us. No one does. You have to let us go.”

 

Just as Spencer drops his hand, a grip lands on Sam’s shoulder and he’s standing back in the cabin, feeling as though the world has dropped out from beneath his feet. Cas is gone and back again, a dazed-looking Bobby in tow.

 

* * *

  


Sam’s gone in a blink, the others gone with him faster than any of Spencer’s team can fathom. JJ takes a shot, but Bobby Singer’s no longer on the pew before the bullet leaves her gun.

 

“Reid?” Hotch says softly. He’s approaching carefully, calm in the way they all are when approaching a survivor. Reid expects to feel relief when familiar arms wrap him up in a careful hug, and there is some of that, but it’s mostly overshadowed by instinctive alpha mourning for the loss of Sam. “Are you alright?”

 

“Fine. I’m fine, Hotch, I-” Reid takes a moment to suck in a sharp breath. He can’t afford to cry now, because he knows the sad, pitying looks he’ll get from his teammates. Hotch, thankfully, allows him enough time to get a handle on his emotions, letting Reid pull away when he’s ready.

 

“We need to talk.”

 

* * *

  


Hotch looks like he has a migraine. That little furrow has dug its way between his brows and he keeps reaching up to rub at his forehead. Morgan’s barely being kept in place by Rossi, who looks more shook than Spencer really expected him to. JJ and Emily are upset, but keeping it together and Spencer’s finally running out of words.

 

“So,” Rossi starts. “You’re telling us that that explosion was actually the grace of an angel, that you were trying to save a seraph from exploding and potentially releasing _millions_ of monster souls on the world, and that Sam Winchester - Sam, wanted by the FBI for hundreds of murders Winchester, is your truemate.”

 

“In a nutshell?” Spencer winces when it comes out a question, his voice less shaky than he’d hoped it’d be. They’d relocated from the ruins of the church to the room set aside from them at the local precinct. Luckily, the place came equipped with blinds and a locking door, so the agents had the place to themselves for now, but there was only so long they were going to be able to fend off the locals who would want answers about what happened to their church and their newly-traumatized pastor.

 

“Kid, you know that’s a lot we have to take on just your word.” Morgan testing him by bringing it up, halfway apologetic underneath, but he keeps his gaze steady as Spencer meets his eyes.

 

“I know it is. I know you have no reason to believe me right now, not after I’ve spent weeks being held by men we consider to be serial killers. But what just happened with Castiel is only the tip of the iceberg. ”

 

“So you said,” Hotch murmurs. Penelope had looked up the incidents in Sioux Falls, the accounts of the demon possession victims Spencer helped take to the hospital. And, being Penelope, she kept digging, finding account after account of people who’d met men who looked exactly like the brothers - and who swore up and down that those self-same men had saved their lives or the lives of their loved ones. It was clear much hadn’t made it into Henriksen’s official reports, only the handful of people who called the Winchesters killers - and now, they had to doubt whether those people were even people, or monsters trying to keep up a cover story. Hotch sifts through the reports piled on the table, flicks through the digital copies Penelope had sent, and looks at the tale weaving itself clearly through the decades and sighs.

 

“Reid. Even if we believe you, you know the Bureau never will. Just because Agent Henriksen covered for the Winchesters once and was successful doesn’t mean that we’ll be. They’ll continue to look for them, even if they pull us off the case. And if Sam Winchester is your truemate-”

 

“Then I can’t stay on the case.” Spencer laughs softly, crossing his arms and rubbing at the frayed fabric of the button up Sam had lent him. “It’s possible I won’t be able to stay on the Bureau either. I’m compromised. I know the regulations, Hotch. But you believe me, don’t you?”

 

Spencer watches as Hotch sighs, letting his gaze drift over the other agents scattered around the table. “God help me, but I think I do.” Murmurs of assent come from the other around the table.

 

“Alright. Start packing this stuff up. We’re doing to need a hell of a cover story.”

 

* * *

  


Vegas is hot, no matter the time of year. Spencer had gotten used to the cooler climate further north, and he always sweats a little more now than he used to when he comes home. His hair sticks to the nape of his neck, just long enough to be curly, touching the tops of his sunglasses as he pushes them further up his nose.

 

Normally, his first day is spent solely with his mother, wanting to eke out as much time with her as he has left, but this time his itinerary is a little different. There’s a dark car waiting for him, shining beautifully in the desert sun, but she’s not why he’s here. Every step that takes him closer to Sam helps unclench the death grip his alpha has had on his chest. Sam’s scent is covered by the thousands of people that have passed through here, and - as soon as he’s in reach - Spencer buries his nose in the omega’s neck, pulling in the spicy-warm smell.

 

“Hey,” Sam says, quiet and a little shy. He looks good, better than he did the last time Spencer saw him nearly six months ago, and Spencer realizes the faint whiff of distress that had always haunted the omega is finally gone.

 

“How’s the devil?” he asks, maybe a little too candid, too forward, but Sam laughs bright and sunny.

 

“Gone. Cas did me a favor once he was back to normal.” Sam pokes at his own temple for emphasis.

 

“Come on you two,” Dean leans over the front seat to needle. “I hate these damn parking garages, Baby isn’t built for this shit.”

 

Spencer laughs, pulling open the back door and sliding in with his bags in tow, dropping them into the footwell and on the seat behind Dean. The older brother backs out carefully, headed toward the hotel they’d booked for their stay.

 

It’d taken quite a bit of work to get to this point, where Spencer could get away from work and his Bureau-appointed therapist and back to his mate. Penelope - with a bit of help from the Winchesters - had dug up enough evidence pointing toward their deaths and that of their subsequent copycats that the case was steadily going cold. The brothers had lain low, taking time to heal while the FBI ran themselves in circles trying to figure things out.

 

Spencer had gotten a text from a mysterious number late one night, nearly a month after the incident in the church. Texting and calls had soothed his alpha, knowing that Sam was alive and safe on the other end of the line - at least, as safe as a hunter could ever be. A pair of carefully planted look-alikes - Spencer really does not want to know just how those look-alikes were procured - and the FBI released an official report declaring the Winchesters dead. Again.

 

It was enough, at least, to settle most of the media babble down enough for Spencer and Sam to risk meeting up. Their bond was leaving a suffocating ache in their chests, left unattended after their initial mating, and only mildly eased by long-distance contact.

 

Just because he can, Spencer reaches out to touch Sam’s shoulder, relief once again flooding his body at the contact. He can see Dean roll his eyes in the rearview, but he’s also angled just enough to see the smile on the older brother’s lips.

 

“You guys are going to be gross and cuddly, aren’t you.”

 

“Like you have room to talk,” Sam shoots back. He half-swivels in his seat, looking at Spencer as best he can. “I’ve been putting up with him and Cas cooing at each other for weeks now.”

 

“Hey, I don’t _coo_ , I’m not a damn pigeon. Y’all just . . . don’t need to hear everything we talk about, alright?”

 

“Secrets don’t make friends, Dean.” Sam’s tone is all little-brother snark, and Dean reaches over to slug him in the arm before he attempts to pull out of the parking complex. Spencer sits back and allows himself to bask in the scent of happy mate. He and Sam have a long way to go toward becoming friends and figuring out what they want from their bond, but Spencer is grateful just to have the chance.


End file.
